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She wasn’t wrong. As I said, Siobhan was one of those women who was tough on the outside but soft as marshmallow on the inside. A dog would have her eating out of the palm of its paws in no time.
The house was empty, aside from the dog. Mr Luttrell would be at work, and Mr Cole normally spent his days painting in the studio pod at the end of their garden. I usually kept out of his way; though, sometimes, we shared a cup of coffee and a chat mid-morning. I always found it endearing how he talked to me like he would a neighbour or a friend. I was just the cleaner, but he didn’t act like that made any difference. He treated me like an equal. We talked about the news, the weather, the latest pop culture gossip.
With Noddy hot on my heels, I headed for the utility room to grab the cleaning supplies. I always started with the bathrooms, then the bedrooms, before finishing with the kitchen and living area. As I said, this house wasn’t particularly large, but given its location, I estimated it cost close to a million euros. The couple had decorated it in a style referred to as Dark Academia, with navy, grey and forest green panelled walls, antique furniture and plenty of bookshelves I was required to dust on a weekly basis.
Noddy lost interest in me after a while and scarpered off, probably to Mr Cole’s studio to pester him for attention. A dog walker normally arrived around midday, a girl in her twenties named Marie. She’d take Noddy off for a long walk before bringing him home where he’d promptly situate himself on the sofa for a nap.
“Maggie? Are you up there?” Mr Cole called when I’d just finished scrubbing out the en suite.
“Yes, I’m here,” I called back.
“Care for a coffee break, love?”
“Sure, I’ll be down now.”
There was a fresh cup of coffee on the counter waiting for me when I arrived downstairs, the fancy frothy kind that came from a machine. Mr Cole’s shoulder length grey hair was tied back in a ponytail, his shirt stained with blue and black paint, as were his fingers.
“Thank you, Mr Cole,” I said as I sat down on a stool. “How’s the painting been going this morning?”
He gave a huff. “The muse hasn’t been kind enough to visit me this week, I’m afraid. I still paint, even when she’s being a frosty bitch, but it’s all crap. And how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Alan.”
I smiled shyly. “Sorry. Force of habit.”
He came and sat across from me, lifting his coffee and bringing it to his lips as he studied me. There was a prolonged moment as his eyes traced my features, and I grew somewhat self-conscious while he surveyed me.
“You are a rather stunning creature, aren’t you,” he said, and I blinked, the compliment unexpected.
“Um … thank you,” I said, though I didn’t believe him. Mr Cole was an artist. Calling people stunning creatures was just the way he spoke.
“That gorgeous Julia Roberts hair and those cerulean eyes. And don’t even get me started on your cheekbones. You’d make a fascinating subject. I think I’d like to paint you one day, if you’ll allow it.”
Was that truly how he saw me? I flushed in both pleasure and self-consciousness. “Oh, no. I couldn’t sit for a painting,” I declined shyly.
Mr Cole frowned. “Why not?”
I glanced down at my hands. “I just wouldn’t be comfortable. I barely like being in photographs.”
At that, he fell silent, still studying me. Finally, he said, “There are ghosts in your eyes. I think that’s what makes you so captivating.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said and lifted my coffee for a sip.
He smiled softly. “It’s good you don’t believe me. People who believe that sort of thing about themselves can be quite insufferable.”
At that, I gave a soft laugh. “Very true.”
“And why don’t you like having your picture taken?” he queried further.
I shrugged. “I just don’t. Not sure why.” It was a lie, of course. I didn’t enjoy looking at myself, mainly because I looked so much like her. The auburn hair, the blue eyes, the smattering of freckles across the cheeks. My mother seemed so normal, harmless, but on the inside lay a monster.
“You’re shy. Self-conscious. Is that why you chose to clean houses? It’s quite a solitary job. Well,” he allowed with a self-deprecating chuckle, “When your sad old employer isn’t forcing you to have coffee and chats with him, that is.”
“You don’t force me. I like having coffee with you. You’re by far the nicest person I work for. And to answer your question, yes, I enjoy working alone, but that’s not why I do this job. I didn’t get a very good education, so my choices were limited.”
